


Ghost Stories

by hecate_01



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Fluff, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26691844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hecate_01/pseuds/hecate_01
Summary: It's Halloween Night at Phantasma, and Erik is wandering through the park, observing the festive evening. When he overhears some ancient rumors regarding the legend of the Opera Ghost, he can't help but interject himself.(Takes place prior to the events of LND)This was an entry for a fanfiction contest.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Ghost Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: Mentions of Murder

The bulbs on the great ferris wheel twinkled orange and purple, casting light on the denizens below, expunging the dark evening shadows. Black and orange striped streamers had been tied to the streetlights, complementing the large white skulls that sat on top of the lamps – _and quite nicely too_ , he thought.

Normally, he wouldn’t walk so freely through his park, brushing against strangers, pushing through crowds. He would always get funny looks – but he couldn’t really blame them. A long black coat with a train that dragged behind him, a white mask, a stern, often hostile, glare – who wouldn’t fear him? He knows he should be used to the stares – they’re all he’s ever known. But sometimes, it was just too much and he needed to shut the curtains, turn off the lights, and close his eyes, seeking respite in his voluntary dark solitude.

But, not today. It was the one day in the year when he felt he could truly blend in with the rest. Dressed as vampires, bats, ghouls, witches – no one looked human, and plenty wore masks. Everyone was too occupied with the games, prizes, and entertainment to notice him. It really is the best day of the year, he thought to himself as he admired the illuminated jack-o-lanterns that sat in every window. He had done a good job with the decorations.

He turned a corner, passing by some food stalls and benches.

“Yeah, and his skin was like yellow parchment!” A childish voice exclaimed.

“No way! Really?”

“Yeah! And he had no nose!”

“Ok, you’re just making stuff up.”

“I’m not, I swear!”

He jerked around to see two little girls and a boy – no older than ten – sitting on a bench and snacking on some funnel cake.

“And he looked like a skeleton,” the little boy divulged through sloppy open-mouthed chews. Crumbs littered the front of his cowboy costume.

“Oh yeah? And what else?” A little blonde girl dressed as a pirate smiled, intrigued at her friend’s story.

“He barely had any hair – only three long strands.”

“What color were they? Do you know?” the other little girl asked. Her long, brunette hair had been tied into a bun. A few defiant curls had freed themselves, sticking out frizzy and proud. “And chew with your mouth closed, you’re getting crumbs all over my tutu!”

“Sorry, Christie! And I do know! They were red!”

“Really?” The blonde girl asked quizzically.

“No, wait! They were black!”

“Ha! I knew it! You’re making stuff up, Ralphie!”

"I am not, Megan!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Who are you talking about?’ the man asked, having elected to approach the children. They looked up at him. The loudmouthed boy swallowed the last bite of his treat.

“I told you you were being too loud, Ralphie!”

“Sorry, Christie! But Megan was too!”

“Was not!”

“Answer my question,” the man interrupted, his booming voice startling the children to attention. He was already regretting this, but he needed closure.

“Oh, he was just telling a spooky story,” Christie spoke. “We’re sorry if we disturbed you.” _Well, at least one of them is polite_ , he thought.

“And what is this ‘spooky story’ you were telling, boy?” He turned his attention to the little cowboy, who was wiping his grubby hands, sticky with sugar, on his brown pants. Ralphie raised his brow, and looked at him apprehensively.

“Huh?”

“I said, what is your spooky story?” he repeated, exasperated.

“Could you, uh, say that again?”

“I don’t need to repeat myself – twice is sufficient.”

“Oh, uh...” The boy turned to the girl to his right. “Christie, do you know what he’s saying?” he whispered loudly, only serving to irk the masked man.

“He’s asking you what your story is about. What, you can’t understand him?”

“His accent’s really thick.”

“Yeah, it is,” Megan agreed. “Are you from Spain, sir?”

“Wai– huh? No! I’m not. How in any way is my accent Spanish? What Spaniards are you talking to?”

“Uh... I don’t know.”

“I’m French, for your information.”

“Oh, you’re from France?” Christie perked up. “Hey Ralphie, this guy’s from France.”

“No way! I was just talking about France! Then you must know the story of the Opera Ghost! Right?”

The man’s eyes widened. When he had first heard his ramblings, he had an inkling as to what he was imparting. It was a story he had overheard one too many times from Buquet and the ballerinas. Nevertheless, he was still taken aback. Part of him had hoped it was a mere coincidence. It was rather miraculous how those rumors managed to make their way to Coney Island.

“Where did you hear that story?” He dropped his accent – the boy was irritating enough when he didn’t understand him.

“Uh, well, my friend told me. He knows this guy, who knew this guy, who knew this guy, who knew this guy–”

“Alright, that’s enough–”

“Who knew this guy, who knew this guy, who knew this guy, who knew this guy, who knew this guy–”

“You’ve made your point–”

“Who knew this guy, who knew this guy, who knew this guy, who knew this guy, who knew this guy, who knew this guy–”

“SILENCE, INSOLENT BOY!” Ralphie finally shut up, staring wide-eyed at the irritated man, who was pinching the space between his brows. Well, to the best of his ability. The mask was a bit of a hindrance.

“Uh, do you know that story too, sir?” Christie asked.

“What gave you that impression?”

“You asked him where he heard it. I don’t know, I only thought you’d ask if you already knew.” _She’s quite the precocious one._

“Well–”

“You’ve gotta!” Megan interrupted. “You’re French! You must know!”

“There’s more to France than a Parisian opera house, you do realize.” He immediately felt the urge to kick himself, as the cowboy and pirate began to hound him.

“You know! You know!”

“Tell us the story!”

“You gotta! You gotta!”

“I don’t have to tell you anything. And besides, where are your parents?”

“We came alone. Tell us the story!” _How irresponsible._

“No. Now run along. Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

“That’s tomorrow! Tell us the story today!”

“No,” he spat, turning away. “Goodnight!”

“Aw, come on!”

“You’re no fun!”

He had barely taken a step when he felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down to see little Christie staring up at him.

“Please, sir. We’d like to hear the story.”

His stern eyes gazed into her own. They shone with a familiar inquisitive and gentle gleam that was so dear to him, even after all these years. Her dark brown eyes expected nothing of him, prepared for rejection. His heart softened. He had disappointed those eyes one too many times. He sighed, turning back around.

“Move over, children,” he ordered as he plopped down onto the rickety bench.

“Yay!” Megan exclaimed as she sat down to his left. The boy took his place to the man’s right, and Christie scooted in between the two. “Tell us everything!”

The childrens’ eyes were on him, waiting with curious glee.

“I don’t quite know where to start...”

“Start from the beginning,” Christie advised. He couldn’t help but let out a chortle.

“You’re a very wise girl, Christine–”

“My name’s Christie.”

“My apologies. Now, it was several years ago – perhaps before any of you were even born–”

“I’m ten years old!” Megan interrupted, holding up all of her fingers. He nodded. 

“Good for you. As a matter of fact, it actually happened ten years ago.”

“So I was a baby.”

“Uh, I’m sure you were. Anyway, I had spent my life traveling, involving myself in various business ventures–”

“Like what?” Ralphie asked.

“I was an architect for a while, building edifices and amenities for high-end clients.”

“What’s an edifice?”

“A building, boy,” the man responded.

“Who’d you build for?” Christie inquired.

“Would you believe me if I said I worked for the Shah of Persia?” The children gasped.

“No way, you’re lying!”

“Get outta town!”

“Really?”

He chuckled. “I only speak the truth.”

“Tell us about Persia!” Ralphie begged.

“I’d rather not. Besides, this is a story about the Opera Ghost.”

“Right, sorry.”

“I came to Paris one day, and found myself a position at the Opera Populaire, where the events of our story shall unfold.”

“What did you do there?” Christie asked. “Like, what was your job?”

“I was...” the man trailed off, racking his brain. “I was an executive manager, of sorts.”

“What does that mean?”

“I worked closely with the other managers, advising them on many facets pertaining to the opera – finances, casting, employment, salaries.”

“So basically, you were everyone’s boss,” Ralphie said.

“Yes, exactly. Now, this Opera Ghost–” he turned to Megan. “He really existed. He was not a myth invented by the managers, the ballerinas, or the stage hands.”

“Really? Did you ever see him?” the blonde girl asked.

“Yes, a couple of times.”

“Tell us! Tell us!”

“Be patient, children, I’m getting there. The first time I ever saw him was in his personal box seat.”

“Ghosts can have box seats?”

“Yes they can, Christie. This ghost in particular was very fond of box five.”

“Why box five?”

“I believe it was due to the fact that box five was the closest to the stage. This ghost was very passionate about the theatrical arts, you know.”

“I didn’t think ghosts liked operas,” Ralphie mumbled.

“Oh, but they can. Why else do you think this ghost haunted an opera house?”

“Yeah, true.”

“So, what did he look like?” Christie asked.

“I had peered in one day, as I had heard the rumors, and was hoping to catch a glimpse of the ghost.”

“And? What did you see?”

“Oh, it was quite the sight!” The man shivered, humoring the children. “He did not look like a skeleton.”

“Aw, darnit!” Ralphie whined, striking his knee with his fist.

“Can he shapeshift?” asked Megan.

“What?”

“I heard he could transform into a flaming head!”

“Where on earth did you hear that?” The girl looked over at Ralphie, who chuckled anxiously. “Anyway,” the man sighed. “If he could shapeshift, I don’t know. I never witnessed it. But I can tell you what I saw. He appeared as a tall man, shrouded in night. He wore dark clothes – you were right, boy, in that he had black hair –all I could see clearly were his glowing eyes – and the mask that he wore.”

“A mask? Why would he wear a mask?”

“People wear masks when they wish to hide something, Megan,” the man explained.

“What would a ghost need to hide?” Ralphie wondered.

“So, like how you’re dressed right now,” Christie observed.

“Well, yes, I...he – he was the inspiration behind my costume.”

“Oh, so cool!”

“I wanted to say that I liked your outfit, but I didn’t know who you were dressed as!”

The man smiled at Megan. “Why, thank you. Now, to continue–”

“I heard he killed people. Is that true?” Ralphie interrupted. The man looked down at the boy with an expressionless countenance.

“He did.”

“Ooo!” Megan gasped, wiggling in her seat. “Tell us!”

“You’re very excited to hear about murder,” the man chuckled. “Are you sure you wish to proceed?”

“Yes!” Ralphie nodded enthusiastically.

“I read half of The Cask of Amon...Amontil– that Poe story! I can handle it!” Megan boasted proudly.

“Oh my, we have a bookworm on our hands,” the man said. The girl beamed.

“Uh, I’m a little nervous, but I wanna hear the rest,” Christie murmured.

“Alright then,” he smiled.

And thus, he elucidated the infamous, disastrous production of Il Muto that, although had occurred ten years ago, was as fresh in his mind as if it were yesterday.

“Then what happened?”

“This ghost is quite unusual– he has magical powers. That night, he turned the prima donna into a toad!”

“A toad?!”

“Yes! A hideous, little toad, who could only croak along to the music.”

“That’s insane!”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

The children were hooked, their eyes twinkling, their ears eagerly drinking in every single word. _Their enthusiasm is rather endearing._

“–and everything was dark, only his laughter was heard. Then, BOOM!–” The children jumped. “The lights came on, and the body of a stagehand was hanging from the rafters for the whole audience to see.”

“No way,” Megan gasped. “Did he die?!”

“Yes, that is usually what happens when someone is hanged.”

“That’s horrible!” Christie exclaimed.

“Did they catch him?” Ralphie asked.

“No, they never did. This ghost is very intelligent, and very very clever.”

“You think pretty highly of this ghost, even though he’s a murderer,” Ralphie observed. The man glared silently, unimpressed with his remark. Christie tapped on his shoulder.

“Tell us more,” she implored.

“Well,” he mused. “I should tell you about his signature weapon – the magical punjab lasso. It was a rather interesting thing, and a paradigm of his ingenuity. He would sling the lasso around the victim’s neck, faster than a flash of lightning. You never saw it coming, and were dead in an instant.”

“Was that how he killed that guy?”

“Yes.”

“Just like a cowboy!” Ralphie giggled. “The cowboy of the opera!” The man smiled softly.

“Yes, I suppose. Just like a cowboy.”

A decade-old story was imparted on that cold October night, only for the ears of a small, yet intrigued gathering. Wide-eyed, they listened to the Frenchman’s account, gasping in horror when the chandelier fell, squealing in fright when the corpulent tenor was killed and the beautiful soprano captured, just as the audience had all those years ago. They fell into a silent reverie when he imparted the rumors he had collected over the years, including the one where the ghost had attempted to kill the handsome young viscount, and how the soprano’s compassionate heart had saved him. Even the little motormouth of a boy listened in solemn silence to the description of the haunted lair in the dank sewers beneath the opera house.

“He was gone by the time the mob broke in. The only trace of him that remained was the mask. And he was never seen or heard from again.”

“There’s more to this ghost than I thought,” Ralphie pondered.

“Yeah,” Megan agreed.

“He sounds sad,” Christie mourned. “A sad, lonely, old man.” _Okay, ouch._

“Oh, I wouldn’t say old...”

“But didn’t you say he was nearly bald, with graying hairs?”

“Well, yes–”

“So he’s old!” Megan exclaimed earnestly. He chuckled.

“I’ve told you everything I know. Run along now, children. It’s getting late.” The friends stood up, grinning from ear to ear.

“That was fun! Thank you, sir!” Megan cheered.

“Yeah, thanks!” Ralphie echoed. The cowboy and the pirate charged down the street, shouting about riding a roller coaster or visiting a haunted house, their shadows dancing in the orange streetlight.

Christie lingered a moment longer. Turning around, she gave the man a quick hug.

“Thank you, sir. You’re a good storyteller.”

His arms were stiff at his sides, surprised at her unexpected behavior. He ruffled her hair tentatively.

“You’re very welcome, Christine.”

“It’s Christie!”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry.”

She pulled away, waving goodbye before running off, calling out for her friends as she disappeared into the night.

The curtain fell on his tale, and the audience left, satisfied. And with that, he made his way down the cobblestone path at a languid pace. The crowd of patrons had thinned within the past couple hours. Pausing beneath a streetlamp, he gazed up at the full moon. No one else was around him, but it wasn’t lonely. For the first time in many years, he had been in good company.


End file.
